Sorry for the missing post yesterday, things are still a little chaotic post surgery. Today will be a double sized post to make up for it. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to take next week off from providing original content so I can finish off some of my monthly commissions and build up a buffer of content again, because I ran dry in the thick of all of this. I’ll still have four posts this coming week, highlighting some other authors and favorite pieces of mine on tumblr, and if anyone has a piece they’d like to submit for a guest post this week, let me know, and we can work something out.
Justin rolled over in the bed, looked over, and saw that whoever he’d brought home the night before was already up and getting dressed in his jeans and shirt. The old radio alarm on the nightstand said it was just shy of five in the morning–he grabbed a cigar from the humidor beside, and lit it, before saying, “Where do you think you’re goin’, so damn early? Get back in bed.”
The guy looked over his shoulder, and buckled his belt up. “Can’t. I gotta get back home–have a meeting at nine this morning, and I can’t show up at work stinking like smoke and sex.”
Justin rolled his eyes–he showed up at work smelling like that everyday. He’d just have to change tactics a bit. “Boy, I said get back over here, and wrap your pretty mouth around this cock, while I have a morning smoke. I’m not going to ask you twice.”
The man gave him a long, impatient look. He was young–probably in his late thirties, well built, but…he didn’t seem very interested. “Look, in the bar, late at night, I get it. You’re some hot biker bear top, whatever, I’m into that. But come morning? You’re just another sorry old bear living in a shithole apartment like this, and I don’t have anymore time for you–
–old man.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
“Old man, get the fuck out of my way.”
He wasn’t that much younger than he was, but that didn’t matter. Justin had a few double whiskeys in him, and that meant he wasn’t in the mood to take shit from anyone, especially not some sorry looking biker bear wearing a leather vest, chaps and jeans, tattoos…everywhere…No, he knew he shouldn’t but…but some part of him wanted it. Wanted his cocky attitude, wanted that bullshit smirk.
Before the biker knew what was happening, Justin had him pinned against the wall, cigar close enough to singe the man’s handlebar mustache. “What the fuck?” the biker asked, but Justin…Justin knew what he was doing, as he reached down pulled off his shirt, and then with his fingers be pulled away one of the man’s harley davidson logo tattoos, letting the pattern dangle in the air for a moment, before laying it across one of his pecs, where it stuck. The man just stared at him, Justin taking a big breath of smoke, leaning in–
and he locked lips with the struggling man he’d pinned against the wall and exhaled the whole plume of smoke into his lungs, whether he wanted it or not. He coughed it back up, and shoved Justin away–who couldn’t quite remember getting up from the bed. “Don’t you roughnecks know that no means fucking no? Fuck–I should know better than to go out on a fucking Sunday night and think I might meet someone worth two fucking cents.”
Justin didn’t say anything else, as the man pulled on his boots and left the apartment–he was still trying to figure out what he’d just remembered. He walked to his grimy bathroom and looked at himself–sure enough, he had that same harley tattoo right there on his pec, where it had always been…or had it? Was this even his apartment? Suddenly it didn’t seem right–his body didn’t seem right. Sure, he’d had tattoos before, but now–fuck, now he had them everywhere. The smoke on his arms, his daddy bear tatts–both were now interspersed with bikes and motorcycles, all over his chest and down onto his belly–even on his back and down onto his legs. In fact, now he had tattoos all over his body–and he could remember getting them all, but he could also…also remember…
The biker didn’t know what to do, beyond stare, as the rest of his tattoos lifted off his body, crossing the gap of space between them, and settling down onto Justin’s body, their clothes worming around until each of them was dressed as the other had been, but Justin had a few other changes–his beard longer, his head shaved bare, and he was dirty, hands greasy. “Why don’t you do this old man biker a favor, and put your mouth to better use than mouthing off, boy?”
The man got down and started sucking, and Justin relished it–a blowjob and a smoke–what was better? And after shooting, he dragged the man back to his place nearby for some extra fun, of course.
Justin kept stroking his cock in the bathroom, running one hand over his hairy body, before lifting it up and smelling his sweaty pit, feeling his long beard brush against his chest. Fuck him. He didn’t need to fuck some rich business fuck to feel good about himself. Sure, he wasn’t rich, but he worked, and he had his bike, and his fucking freedom. Riding all weekend–that’s what he loved. The highways, the backroads, but especially fucking truckers and bikers in rest areas along the way. He shot his load across the cabinets and the floor, and left it there, climbing back in bed–sleeping another hour before he had to get up for work–throwing on his grungy work gear and riding his bike to the construction site for a day of labor, and afterwards, stinking of sweat and musk, he went right to Pigtown, parking his bike with the others outside. He had a feeling about tonight–he was getting closer to something, to someone. He greeted the bartender by nickname–his drink already waiting for him, and the hunt began again.
Justin was sulking at a small table in Pigtown’s front bar, the seat opposite him empty, smoking his sixth or seventh cigar of the night, the ashtray in front of him piled high and spiling over, a small collection of empty glasses to one side. What in the hell was the matter with him tonight? He usually had no trouble pinning someone down for a good fuck, but tonight, no one seemed appealing, or he just didn’t feel like fucking any of them, or perhaps a bit of both. He heaved a sigh of smoke. It was three in the morning. Pigtown never closed, of course, but he did have work in the morning, and as much as he hated the idea of going home alone, maybe he should just give up. But each time he made an effort to get up, the barcub would bring around another drink, light him another cigar, and park him back down, and so he was still sitting there, getting drunker, and…waiting for something, or rather, someone. He was sure it was a someone, but who?
The bar was moderately crowded–Pigtown had a rather devout clientele, and it was often packed, even on the weekdays. But he didn’t want a regular, he wanted someone…fresh. Someone…blank. Blank? He didn’t quite know what that meant, but the word seemed appropriate. His attention was drawn to the door, and a face he didn’t recognize poked through nervously, his heart skipping. Younger, probably in college. He looked a bit drunk already, and he made his way in. Gay? Did it matter? Everyone who came to Pigtown was gay, so why bother asking? Most important, Justin wanted him, but not just sex.
He felt an odd squirming on his arms, looked down, and saw his tattoos were…moving across his skin, the smoke swirling and ebbing–seething, perhaps. He knew, in his mind, that he should be terrified, but something else told him to relax…take a deep breath of smoke, hold it for a moment, and then blow it in the young man’s direction. The smoke had an odd consistency–dark and opaque, like even as it moved through the air, it remained flat. The tattoos on his arms lost some of their detail, looking older and well worn, but he watched the cloud drift towards the young man, who was at the bar getting a beer, where it wrapped around his neck and shoulders before dissipating, leaving a tattoo around his neck matching the swirling smoke patterns on Justin’s arms.
The young man was clueless, but he took his beer and turned towards the bar, where his eyes glued themselves to the fiery tip of Justin’s cigar. He couldn’t look away, his legs plodding towards him, forcing him into the seat opposite, while Justin just leered at him, and without saying a word, leaned over the table, wrapped a hand around the back of his the young man’s head, and pulled him into a long, smoky kiss. He resisted at first, but after the first lungful he relaxed, accepting the smoke, desiring it, needing it–when at last the pulled away, Justin gave him a cigar, and watched the young man light it like an expert–no, stranger than that, he lit it just like Justin did, like Justin had taught him himself.
“I don’t…what am I doing?” the young man asked, his eyes glassy like a dream.
“Don’t think about it boy,” Justin said, “I don’t need a boy who thinks, you know? Actually, get up, we’re gonna go find someone.”
He hauled Justin up from the table, and together they searched through the back rooms, for someone Justin had seen earlier, a semi-regular, and it was relatively easy–his head stood up over the rest of the crowd, and the bright red hair on his head was obvious even in the darkness. A thick muscle headed brute–but it was his tattoos which had caught his eye earlier. He could feel the tattoos across the room, and he urged them to leave their current master and come join him–they obliged, drifting across the room, darting between bodies, and he turned to his boy, grabbed his shirt by the collar and ripped it down the front with a rough yank.
He tried to object, but the tattoos struck him, adhering and crawling over his body where Justin directed them. Four leaf clovers wound up his arms, red hair sprouting on his relatively bare arms as they did, spreading up onto his chest, where the word “Irish” was tattooed over his pecs. Something else slid over one shoulder and onto his back– “Brawn over Brains”.Justin stepped back and watched his boy start to expand, red hair filling in all over his body, muscle bulking up under his skin, and he began growing taller as well. He just stared down at himself, unable to believe what was happening, his mind turning foggy, but it wasn’t enough for Justin–he pulled in more tattoos from everywhere in the club. “Daddy’s Little Cub” across his lower back, “Jock” across his bulging gut, decorative swirls of leather bands up and down his legs. His clothes were tattered from his rapid growth, but reformed, his shirt becoming a leather bulldog harness, his jeans tattered from a day at the work site just like Justin, and the smell of him, of his boy, of his smoke, and he bent him over, yanked down the back, exposed his cub’s ass and rammed his cock home.
He woke up the next morning, his big, red headed cub snoring loudly beside him. He didn’t quite know when they’d gotten home the night before, but looking at his phone, he saw they had to get ready for work. First things first, however. He lit himself a cigar, feeling the jitters die back, and then slipped his cock into his boy’s loose hole, feeling him groan, waken slowly, and start pushing back as his daddy bear fucked him.
Funny to think that a man as big and burly as Pat could be such a bottom, but something about his old biker bear’s cock just did something to his holes he couldn’t explain. He topped more often than not otherwise, usually him and daddy taking some old bear and both ends in some rest area park on a long ride, but for Justin, he’d always be his submissive cub. Justin could dimly recall the events of the night before, but they were fading rapidly. More than anything else, his life felt…stable for the first time in days. Like he’d finally reached the end of a long slide, or like some strange force had finally left him for someone else. It was relaxing–but maybe he and his boy could go a few weeks without another visit to Pigtown. He liked the place, and he’d always be a regular…but sometimes it gave him the creeps, you know?
Bracken's Corner 